In the old church
the everywoman
is veiled all so in black,
tears shed for her father
a sole bell rung slow to remember,
the rite of good men
standing bare headed
in collarless shirts, waiting —
flickering candles, a flame
on the Gothic high altar
staining, the angelic glass
a smoldering darkness
for a Hymn sung over the grave fresh
dug, spaded into a mound
of rain blistered stones
changing mud into mystery —
entropic, the corpse grey-cold
in a coffin to be lowered
merciful, this alone alchemy —
transformation through Death.
Ted McNamara